


To Praise Thee Whilst I Live

by Violsva



Series: Arte Regendus [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:26:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson’s fascination with his fellow lodger has long ago turned into a more specific interest. He only needs the slightest encouragement to go farther.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Praise Thee Whilst I Live

When I first met Sherlock Holmes I had no idea that he would be as all-consuming as he was.

I noticed that he was attractive, certainly, and was cheered by it, for during my illness my interest in such matters had deserted me. I had normally been more drawn by women, and I saw this pull towards a man as a sign that my former vigour was slowly returning to me. I am perhaps the only man in England who has regarded his own desire for another man as a sign of normality.

From then on I was too interested in him to notice my interest. I searched out all information I could find about his life and the work that so engaged his mind – though I later realized I had been going about it far more slowly than he would have. But though he no doubt knew everything about me from the first, he did not seem to find my presence a burden. He invited me to follow him on cases before I could ask, and so the relationship that I was reluctant, given its disparity, to call a partnership began.

He stimulated my mind, giving me something to focus on, some reason to recover, especially after my army review. In the time before I had met him I had reflected on how in only two years a man could be utterly ruined, changed from a promising young doctor to a limping cripple. The Army confirmed that I would be of no more use as a soldier and little as a doctor. And yet Holmes claimed to value my assistance, though he was certainly capable of working on his own when I was indisposed.

The winter I had first met Holmes I had been nearly paralysed at times, though I had hidden that from him as well as I could – and as I did not see too much of him before March, it was not hard. The next winter, I was, I think, less ill, but after a summer of far better health I took it as a blow. And it was much harder to conceal. Yet Holmes rarely commented on it, even when I was clearly slowing him down. But cabs appeared for us as if by magic, there was always a footstool by my chair, and there was always something useful to be done in a case that could be done sitting down. I was shamefully grateful, and even more grateful that he ensured that such things seemed to happen of their own accord, and not his doing.

In the spring, Holmes became involved in an extremely complicated case, which he claimed he could not tell me about. He spent long hours on it, sometimes gone for days at a time. I worried over his health, but I could not deceive myself that that was my only motivation for my annoyance. I was, quite simply, jealous.

Even when I had been unable to accompany him, Holmes had told me of his cases afterwards. He had seemed to enjoy my company on them, and often said that my presence was useful. I knew that my frustration at being left out this time was irrational, but I still wanted to know what he was doing, and disliked the implication that I could not be trusted with sensitive information. But I tried for patience. It was quite reasonable that he would be involved in affairs requiring discretion, and I, after all, was not needed for his work.

Holmes came back to Baker Street one evening and flung his hat across the room like a discus. “Is there supper, Watson?” he asked.

“I’ll ring,” I said. Neither I nor Mrs. Hudson had any idea these days when he would be home, so unless informed otherwise she brought up meals for one man alone.

“By Jove, my dear doctor, this is tedious,” said Holmes, flinging himself onto the settee. “If I had to spend all my time working around self-important politicians I should go mad. I don’t know how – men stand it.”

“I am not missing much, then?” I asked.

He sighed. “Your presence would improve matters immensely. I cannot talk to these men. You would likely be far more polite.”

“I should have no idea what to say to them.”

“Don’t worry about that. Five minutes with the House of Lords and one realizes its members are less fit to run a country than a random selection of beggars off the street. It’s a good thing they don’t.”

“Don’t they? Who does, then?”

He paused a moment. “Bureaucrats, my dear Watson. Hordes of them. Some are tolerable, others less so. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

He ate heartily, for once. “I have had nothing all day,” he said. “Too much work. All sorting through records, for now, and interviewing Lords who have no wish to be interviewed and don’t seem to realize that I feel quite the same way, and would like to get it over with instead of listening to them protesting for half an hour. There is no scope for me in this case. Mycr – my client could have done half of it himself if he bothered to leave his office.”

“I know you cannot tell me much,” I ventured, “but I should like to hear about it nonetheless.”

“Alas, there’s very little I am allowed to say. If only – never mind. Well, someone in the House, or his secretary, or his mistress, or for all I know his housekeeper, may be committing treason. I can’t tell you how, or to what purpose, or whom I suspect. What it means is that I must spend all my time searching for someone who is working for – interests other than those of the Crown. Right now it is at a rather tedious stage and I must say I have no idea why my client wanted me _now_ rather than after he had gathered the data on his own – it is something he is quite skilled at himself.”

“No doubt, knowing of your skills, he thought you would be less likely to miss anything,” I said. For some reason Holmes laughed, and then shook his head.

“I can assure you, my dear fellow,” he said, “that that was not his reasoning. Ah well. _I_ know you will not run off and tell all this to your friends, Watson, but the government doesn’t, and so I must work alone, though this would go much faster with a partner.” He went to the mantel and selected a pipe. “I think, though, that the information-gathering is finished with for now, and I need only collate it and consider it in the context of those bores I spoke with today.”

He sat in his armchair before the fire, and I joined him in mine with a medical journal, feeling warmed not only by the fire but by his clear trust in me. Around an hour later, he said, “Ha!” I looked up, but he was gazing abstractly into the distance. “ _Ha_ ,” he said, this time with satisfaction. His gaze focused and landed on me. “Well, Watson,” he said, “I may not be able to tell you anything, but if you don’t mind working under such conditions I shall need an assistant, and even M – my client will have to admit that you would be better than any other candidate.”

“I should be delighted,” I said.

“Excellent,” said he. “I shall see about arranging it tomorrow. Now then.” He tossed aside his pipe and reached for his violin case, and I tried not to make my anticipation too clear.

Holmes is striking enough at his leisure – though with a mind like his perhaps he is never truly at his leisure. But in repose there forever seems to be something missing, that intense focus which is the central motivator of his movements otherwise. Holmes in motion is entirely caught up in his purpose, and that is fascinating enough when his purpose is to see that which no other man can. But when he takes all that intense focus and gives it to art, art which one can experience just as one watches it being made – then, there are no words for him.

He is not dramatic in his playing, nor exaggerated in gesture. Often the only parts of him that move at all are his arms and his hands. But good Lord, his hands. The fingers of his left hand do the most impossibly graceful things, and the music produced is just as impossibly beautiful – when, that is, he is in the mood for it.

I asked him once why he did not play professionally, and he laughed. “I cannot, Watson,” he said. “I cannot play with any accompaniment. I can’t stay on one piece consistently without the greatest effort – my mind throws in variations and improvisation until I am playing something quite different from what they expect. I have no discipline, as my tutors frequently berated me. And I should not like the violin to become a chore, when it is so often useful as an assistance to thought – even if I do offend all listeners at such times.”

But even when he gives himself to his most objectionable caterwauling, he is still fascinating to look at, and often the focus is still there, merely directed at a goal no other man can see.

This time, though, he said, “Any requests, Watson?” with a smile of some triumph in his conclusion and I thought, or hoped, some affection for me.

“Anything,” I said.

He hummed to his instrument, and then began. It was nothing I recognized, but before meeting Holmes my knowledge of music was not great. It swirled out of him, almost visibly pouring from his marvellously quick hands. That night I slept like the dead, dreaming of the music of the spheres.

I was quite aware of the nature of my feelings for him, of course. I had intended to ignore them, assuming that they would fade over time and when healthy again I should be free to pursue a young woman, if I was ever in a position to do so. Instead they had grown stronger. The man was cursedly fascinating.

I had made my peace with my desires for men in University, but while it was an as good or better way of finding relief than relations with women, one could not have a quick secret liaison, or even a series of them, with one’s fellow-lodger, when neither party could easily escape the attachment should he wish to. Assuming Holmes would even be amenable to the idea in the first place – he seemed to have no interest in anyone at all. And I could not casually flirt with him to find out – or with anyone, I told myself firmly, thinking of my continuing ill health.

Holmes spent the next morning away, but came home before teatime whistling, which I’d never heard him do before. “Are you free tonight, Watson?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, though given my general lack of occupation I thought reply superfluous.

“Excellent. We shall be confronting a man at his home tonight, and putting the fear of God into him, or at least the fear of Sherlock Holmes.” He gave a quiet self-mocking laugh.

“At his home?”

“Yes – he should let us in, and after that – well, I want you to bring your revolver, but we shouldn’t need it.”

“Holmes, what on earth shall we be doing?”

“Producing a confession. Watson, you know I can’t be specific.”

“Yes, but this is rather beyond what I expected.”

“The man is being bribed or perhaps blackmailed, and if I can get him alone I should be able to get him to confess. It will have to be at his home, for I believe one of the culprits is among his staff, and it will be well to have both at once. But you see that I cannot do this alone, and I need a witness besides. Will you come?”

“Of course I will,” I said. I knew even then that he generally objected to explaining his plans before their fruition, and I was touched that he had told me this much even with this other bar on his speech. He smiled.

“Excellent. I have made an appointment with the man – you may be interested to know he is the Earl of St. James – at eight tonight. He thinks it is to discuss art. Well,” he added, with a smile that I was too surprised to decipher, “that’s not quite what he thinks.”

“An _Earl_?”

“Oh yes. Did I not say I had been investigating the House of Lords?”

“But my dear Holmes -” There was really nothing more I could say to that. He grinned.

“I must just attend to another few matters,” he said, turning back toward the door. “I’ll see you this evening, Watson.”

At eight that night I found myself behind Holmes as he knocked on a door in one of the finest parts of London. The door was opened by an impeccably proper butler.

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion. “I have an appointment to see his Lordship.”

“Yes.” The butler frowned at me. “I believe his Lordship expected you to be alone?”

“This is my friend Doctor Watson,” said Holmes, with a smile and no further explanation.

The butler led us to the drawing room, not without an odd glance, and said, “If you will wait here, sirs.” With that he disappeared, moving in the smooth unobtrusive way of an excellent servant. I tried not to be disconcerted by it, nor stare at the finery around me, but a man gets rather unused to such things in the Army, and I had not been used to them even before it. Holmes looked quite at home, but I have seen him look so in all variety of circumstances.

After a moment a surprisingly young man entered, looking nervous. “Mr Holmes?” he said.

“St. James,” said Holmes. “This is my friend Dr. Watson. You will excuse me, I am sure, but Watson has an interest in the Pre-Raphaelites.” I did, as a matter of fact, but Holmes had shown no sign of caring for modern art and I’d never spoken of it with him. His Lordship was looking very disconcerted. “Watson, this is Lord St. James.”

“My lord,” I said as we shook hands, trying not to be intimidated; he said, “Doctor,” and then turned to Holmes.

“Well,” he said, then appeared at a loss. “Well, come this way.” He led us up a staircase. “It takes a rather _sensitive_ nature to appreciate such art, don’t you think, Dr. Watson?” he asked.

“I suppose,” I said. Holmes, beside me, had made a very faint sound of amusement at St. James’ question. I wondered if it meant I was right in my suspicion of the subtext behind it. St. James led us down a corridor into a gallery. I stopped in the doorway behind the others; my knowledge of art came from magazines and museums. I had never seen so many paintings in a private home.

Holmes and St. James discussed art between them, until I felt compelled to join St. James in correcting some of Holmes’ ideas. The man’s tastes are, to say the least, wildly unconventional. He merely laughed at me and turned to a Rossetti near the window.

“That was in fact a commission,” said Lord St. James.

“Yes,” said Holmes, looking at the stretched winged figure of Zephyr. “It is not a usual subject for him, though I find I prefer it to _Lady Lilith_. But they place rather a strain on one’s pocketbook, such commissions, do they not?”

This completely inappropriate enquiry made St. James stare at him in surprise before beginning, “No, no, it’s not a concern -”

“This commission was paid for by Herr Wilhelm Oster, of the German Embassy,” said Holmes, calmly. “So was your prize stallion. Various large sums of money have found their way into your accounts from unclear sources for the last five years.” Now that I knew what Holmes was doing I shifted to make sure I was blocking the doorway, and reached into the pocket where my gun was.

“Mr Holmes, what are you implying?” He was glancing around, searching for an exit, and as he spoke he began to size me up.

“I am implying nothing, Lord St. James. Stop looking so speculatively at Watson; he’s worth five of you. Herr Oster will shortly be sent back to Germany by his Embassy. My condolences on your parting.” His tone was very dry. “You, though, are harder.”

“This is all nonsense.” He ran for the bell pull. Holmes caught him halfway there and twisted his arm behind him. “Please,” he said.

“You do understand your position, do you not, my lord?” asked Holmes.

“Oster is a friend of mine. Can a man not have friends from the Continent, now?” His voice was raised. Holmes gave a significant look at the open door and I went to close it; as I did a man dashed in. I drew my revolver and slammed the door behind him. He whirled in shock and froze.

“Fleming!” said Lord St. James.

“My lord.” I admired the servant’s nerves. His tone barely wavered, and he managed to look away from the gun to his master.

“Ah, Mr Fleming,” said Holmes. “The valet. Just the man I wanted to see. Very loyal, I understand. To certain parties. Now, then, we can discuss matters like gentlemen. Fleming, Peter Reinholdt is dead.”

Fleming gasped.

“Your brother, I believe,” said Holmes. “He committed suicide after attempting to destroy his papers. Unfortunately for you the attempt was unsuccessful.”

The servant’s face was a mask of despair. “Fleming!” said Lord St. James. “What’s this?”

“Oster did not, you see, introduce him to you simply because he thought you might get on well,” said Holmes. “He has been spying for Germany the entire time he was in your employ.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Fleming, his voice far from the cool intonation it had had before. “Is he truly dead?”

“Yes. He died this morning.” There was, perhaps, a touch of sympathy in Holmes’ tone. “I know everything about your work, Reinholdt. There is always a trail, though you were very good at hiding it.”

“It’s him?” asked St. James. “No doubt I have been remiss as an employer, but I can hardly be blamed for -”

“For accepting bribes in exchange for tampering with the agenda of the House of Lords?” asked Holmes. “I think you can be blamed for that, in fact. And that, in combination with your other interference in government affairs, amounts to treason, one of the few crimes with which a peer of the realm can be charged.”

“But this is madness,” said St. James. “I won’t – you have forced yourselves into my home -”

“No, no, I had an invitation,” said Holmes. “Before witnesses – one of whom is utterly unimpeachable, you will find. However, it is not, I am sorry to say, in Britain’s interests for you to be publicly tried, and so you will be only minorly inconvenienced by the consequences of your behaviour, provided you agree to come pleasantly to Whitehall with us.”

“And if I don’t?” St. James’ voice was not made for defiance, but he attempted it nonetheless.

“Then you will come to Whitehall _un_ pleasantly, my lor -”

Holmes was interrupted by Fleming, or rather Reinholdt, springing at him. I aimed for the man’s leg, in the split second I had – I did not wish to kill him. This was a mistake, as it did little to stop him as he fell on Holmes. Lord St. James pulled away from the detective and ran single-mindedly for the door. I tackled him, got his arms behind him, and brought my revolver to his head. When I was certain he would remain still I looked at Holmes.

He was standing over the unconscious bleeding form of the valet. I had expected nothing less, having been provided with ample evidence over the previous year of the surprising strength of his thin form. “Excellent work, Watson,” he said. “If I have remembered – ah, here they are.” He produced a set of handcuffs and fixed them on Lord St. James’ wrists. I handed him my gun and went to see to Reinholdt’s wound.

It was a bad one, through the gastrocnemius muscle, more than I could do much for there. I improvised bandages from the man’s linen and told Holmes, “There’s nothing more I can do without proper equipment.”

“To Whitehall, then,” said Holmes. “He won’t be conscious for some time. I think the two of us together can get him downstairs.”

“I’ll have you arrested,” said Lord St. James. “You won’t get out of this house without the servants noticing, and they’ll call the police.”

“I am acquainted with the police,” said Holmes. “I doubt you will wish them to know certain information I have about you. I suggest you keep quiet.”

“You have no right -”

“Do shut up,” I said, lifting Reinholdt by his shoulders. “Holmes, will you take his feet?”

“Just a minute,” said Holmes. He stuffed his handkerchief into Lord St. James’ mouth. “Otherwise he’ll have the whole house in here,” he said, coming to help me.

We deposited the valet in the hall, and Holmes went up after Lord St. James while I and the driver of the carriage we had arrived in took Reinholdt out to that vehicle. Holmes arrived shortly after we had managed to lift the valet in, with an arm around Lord St. James’ shoulders as the lord glared at him furiously.

“Here we are, Smith,” said Holmes cheerfully, giving his Lordship a not particularly gentle shove into the carriage. “Take us to Whitehall. It will be very dull for you, Watson, unless the government decides to be more forthcoming than is usual, but it shouldn’t take long.”

It was less than ten minutes later when we arrived at one of the many government offices on Whitehall. It was tall, with Georgian columns and wide expanses of grey stone that stood out in the night. Smith escorted Lord St. James out of the carriage and into the building, and Holmes and I were left with the unconscious Reinholdt. “Your revolver, Watson,” said Holmes, handing it to me.

“Oh God,” I said, suddenly realizing the significance of my actions as I took the weapon. “I almost shot a peer of the realm. Oh good Lord.” I should have been horrified, but Holmes caught my eye and I found myself laughing.

He was as well. When I had nearly got hold of myself again he said, “His heir will no doubt be a bit annoyed you did not finish the job,” and that set me off again.

“Holmes,” I gasped, “you are a wicked man.”

“I daresay,” he said, between chuckles. “Half the criminals of London would agree with you, anyway.”

“Not all?”

“I am young yet.” We laughed more. My ribs were in some danger.

“Well,” said Holmes at last. “We have certainly had an enjoyable evening’s entertainment.”

“Better than Gilbert and Sullivan,” I agreed.

“Most things are.” I laughed again, and he joined in. He was lovely, the angles of his face caught in the multiple lights from the carriage lamps and the street. “Shall we?” He gestured at the valet and I helped him lift the man out of the carriage.

“You are certain you did not injure him severely?” I asked as we carried him in. The man’s utter stillness was unnerving.

“I shouldn’t have. I’ve done worse in the boxing ring and caused no permanent damage.” The thought of Holmes boxing was unhelpfully distracting.

“I’ll see to him inside, if you can find me the appropriate facilities.” I might not be in practice, but I had dug out enough bullets in my time to know I could manage another.

“I think there should be somewhere suitable.”

We passed through the doorway with our awkward burden, and Holmes was met at once by a young man. “Mr Holmes,” he said, frowning at the body, “your presence is requested.”

“Of course. Find Dr. Watson somewhere to attend to his patient, will you? Mr Reinholdt is of interest to this matter, and will be needed once he has come to himself. I can find my own way.” He waved a hand casually at me and left.

The secretary said, “If you will come this way, Doctor,” and helped me carry Reinholdt through an archway in the opposite direction from Holmes. He took me to a small windowless room which, I was surprised to see, was equipped with a proper surgical table and an array of shining equipment.

“Will you require assistance?” he asked, lowering Reinholdt onto the table. His own reluctance was palpable, and I told him I should be fine.

With the man already unconscious, I did not like to administer an anaesthetic, though to my surprise I found both morphine and ether in the room’s cupboards. I wondered why on earth there would be a fully stocked surgery in a government office, but I since I was lucky enough to have one I focused my attention on my patient.

After determining that Holmes was likely right that the man would take no lasting harm from his blow to the head, I dug out the bullet and dealt with the wound as well as I could. Shortly after I had finished bandaging it and cleaned up most of the blood the secretary looked in on me.

“Are you finished, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Mr Reinholdt will be spending the night here, if he still has not regained consciousness.”

“Is Mr Holmes finished with Lord St. James?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I believe he is not occupied at the moment,” he said.

“Where can I find him?”

He gave me directions, and I told him how to care for Reinholdt before leaving him with the man. The long halls of the building stretched before me, thankfully devoid of twists or confusing corners. I mounted a flight of steps and came to what must be the right door as a voice spoke from behind it.

It was a man’s voice, not Holmes’ but rather similar. “I do suggest you tell him, Sherlock.”

“That’s completely irrelevant to the case. And by the way, how is Miss Wolfe?” That was Holmes’ voice, with a mocking intonation I hadn’t heard from him before, even when speaking to the police.

“Do keep a civil tongue in your head. Trust me, he will take it well.”

I could not work out their meaning, nor imagine Holmes taking part in such a conversation. It was certainly none of my business, however. I knocked. A few seconds later Holmes appeared, his body blocking my view of the room behind him.

“Ah, Watson. Come along, dear fellow,” he said, steering me away from the door. “It’s late, and a long way home.” If the man remaining in the room was his client, I supposed he could not introduce me.

“I won’t ask what all that was about,” I said in the cab home.

He smiled. “I wish I could tell you.” He was quiet for the rest of the ride, frowning out at London’s buildings. He helped me out of the hansom with an ironic smile that made it a jest rather than condescension, and I found my key as he paid our fare.

It was raining and cool outside, the sort of grim April evening that makes one think Robert Browning was mad, and 221B was a welcome relief. I asked Mrs. Hudson to send up tea and poked the banked fire into bright flames when I arrived in our sitting room. Holmes stretched out on the settee as I was doing so. I thought, by the line of his jaw, which was all I could see of him from my angle, that he might be grinning, but when I turned there was no sign of it. I sat in my own armchair and leaned back with a sigh of pleasure.

“That went well, or well enough,” I said. “You were right about Reinholdt – I think he will wake up quite healthy, and I may have saved him from too much trouble from his leg. He must have been desperate, to jump at you like that.”

“He was very attached to his brother, I gather,” said Holmes. “Any man in his position might well decide he hadn’t much else to lose.”

I reflected upon my own brother, whom I would quite cheerfully have strangled, throwing away his inheritance in Edinburgh. I did not think I could stand to spend another Christmas watching while he lost himself and trying not to think of childhood holidays. If _I_ ’d been the elder...

I realized that if I’d had the money to buy my own practice directly after taking my degree, I would never have met Sherlock Holmes. That stopped my self-pity quite effectively. Heaven knew if I ought to be happy to have met him, given the impossible passion I had conceived for him, but I certainly was.

I gazed at the few paintings we had about the place. I knew nothing of Holmes’ taste in art, but he had seemed to manage well enough in the conversation this evening. Lord St. James had not, as if he was not expecting a discussion of aesthetics.

Holmes chuckled softly to himself, and I turned to him. “Forgive me, my dear Watson,” he said, his smile not ironic at all, “but I believe I can guess what you were thinking just now.”

“Can you?” I asked. I did not believe he was capable of mind-reading, but I couldn’t entirely rule it out. At the time I had not yet had a demonstration.

“You have, I think,” he said, “formed your own theory as to Lord St. James’ intentions in inviting me to appreciate art this evening.”

I stared at him for a long moment. He was right, however he had managed it. Had that been a laugh of scorn, or sharing a joke, or ... what? And what on earth was I to say? I fumbled through my mental encyclopedia of the classical references that are common for such matters even in the army, and gave it up. “I have,” I said.

He smiled with half his mouth. If one of us was to say it, I thought, let it be him – then, at least, I wouldn’t be insulting him if I was wrong.

“He was dreadfully surprised when I arrived with you,” said Holmes. “But such is the risk of not being specific.”

He was deliberately teasing me now, his eyes sparkling wickedly. I’d give him _specific_. I stood, bent over him on the settee, took his face in my hands, and kissed him.

He kissed me right back. I tried to pull away after a moment and he leaned forward and brought his lips back to mine. My arms slid around his shoulders.

It didn’t feel like it had in the Army, a diversion, a prelude to a short encounter. It felt like kissing a woman, a respectable woman, or the man I’d fallen in love with at University ten years before, fool I had been. It felt like a future stretched out from it.

When he pulled away, he said warningly, “I will not be second to conventionality,” and joy pushed hard at my ribcage, trying to escape.

“Holmes, when have you ever been second to _anything_?” I asked him. He laughed and kissed me again, and _Faustus_ ran through my head – _tasted the eternal joys of Heaven_ – and I flicked my tongue against his lips. Had I as many souls as there be stars, I’d give them all for him.


End file.
